Page 141 of Risky Passion

Parker and Whitney both rolled their eyes as if the idea itself was exhausting. I couldn’t remember the last time either of them had gone on a date. But knowing Maya, and with Whisper’s matchmaking skills, it wouldn’t surprise me if that changed real soon.

Maya plonked a box onto the table next to me and dusted her hands on her tight, white jeans. “Are we still searching for Beatrice and Watts?”

Aria nodded, pulling her phone from her pocket and frowning at the screen. “Watts,” she muttered, hitting the answer button and bringing the phone to her ear. “Aria Morgan.”

As she listened, I studied her expression, but Aria was a fortress, her features giving nothing away. I forced my attention back to the box in front of me, flipping through the pages. Halfway down the stack was another ledger. Dreading what I was about to find, I turned the cover.

The ledger's opening date was January 1, 1946. Huh. I’d forgotten the orphanage was over a hundred years old. Hopefully, it hadn’t always been as sinister as its later years.

What had changed to make life so horrific for the kids who lived there?

The ledger was similar to the one Whitney had found, with columns headed with names, and dates of birth, etcetera, but this one included an additional column markedNotes.

Three words repeated down the column:Transferred. Adopted. Deceased.

At a glance, it seemed that even in the late 1940s, just as manychildren had died as had been adopted. Then again, this was an era when the world was still reeling from the aftermath of World War II. Times must have been unimaginably harsh.

I flipped through the pages, curiosity tugging me forward, searching for the final entry. The last date recorded was October 16, 1966.

The Kincaid brothers were born in the early 1960s so I checked the last couple of entries, but didn’t recognize any of the names.

Setting the ledger aside, I reached into the box and pulled out another book, this one labeledStaff Roster.

Flipping the cover open, I noted the journal started in 1980. Like the previous ledger, it listed dates, names, and payments. But this one also recorded clock-in and clock-out times. Relief washed over me as I realized it was a record of employees, not children.

I skimmed through the pages, unease coiling in my stomach. How many of these staff members knew what was happening in that twisted place? How many had looked the other way?

My gaze snagged on a name.

“Holy shit! I got one,” I blurted. “Beatrice Holloway. But she was staff.”

The others crowded around as I turned the book toward them.

“She wasstaff?” Aria’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

“Could that beTriss Holloway?” Ryder muttered, his face paling. “Roger Newton’s secretary? She’s the right age, and she knows that Rosebud Wharf area better than anyone.”

“Let’s find out,” Aria said, pulling out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts before pressing one to call, and as she held the phone to her ear, her eyes darted between Ryder and the ledger.

“Roger, it’s Aria Morgan. Is Triss there?”

A tense silence filled the room as we exchanged glances.

Aria’s expression crumbled. “Thanks, Roger. No . . . no, I’ll get back to you.”

She ended the call, scowling as she lowered the phone. “Triss hasn’t shown up for work for the last couple of days, and he can’t get hold of her.”

“Jesus Christ,” I growled. “She’s been working right under our noses this whole damn time.”

CHAPTER 33

Tory

Theroom eruptedlike a cockpit alarm at forty thousand feet, chaotic and urgent. Everyone was moving at once, talking and planning. But I was still grappling with the fact that Beatrice Holloway had been a staff member at the orphanage. All the staff that I’d dealt with when I lived in an orphanage were lovely.

I flipped through the roster, skimming the handwritten pages until I found her name.

“She must’ve been young when she started,” I said, thinking aloud. “This roster’s from 1980. That’s forty-five years ago. Maybe she was an orphan there first?”

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